


Foundations

by Destina



Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Character Study, Early Work, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-06-02
Updated: 2000-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 13:12:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The earliest works I wrote in fandom, circa 1999.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Open Air

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter of Foundations is an unconnected short early work from TPM fandom. I've posted them this way to avoid posting seven tiny stories separately. Written spring/summer of 1999; posted to AO3 in November 2015.

A gentle breeze whispered through the trees, catching them in the act of straightening and bending them across the starlit sky. Leaves rustled, breaking loose from their moorings and drifting down across the open spaces. They settled to the ground in patterns of red and gold, their brilliant colors darker under the incandescence of twin moons.

Obi-Wan turned his face up, listening to the sounds of the night, to the mournful howl of the atmosphere as it struggled for possession of the sky. It seemed appropriate that the darkness should come alive. Nothing quiet here; no silent elegy, no passing on into the night unseen. There were things he would have shouted, if he had the voice. Nothing could crowd past the tears; so many things, left unsaid.

The cloak hung heavy on his shoulders, drawing him inexorably toward the ground. He shrugged it off, taking time to feel its roughness against his hands, to remember how it felt to be caught inside its folds and held there against the strength beneath. With infinite care, he folded the garment, pressing it to his face for a moment.

There had not been enough time, and the universe was unfair. But it was the way of all things, and he was not supposed to mourn.

He set the dark brown cloth aside and knelt on the cool dirt, digging his hands into the earth, fingers clenched around fists full of grit and stone. One handful at a time, he made a place for the sum of all he'd loved, a hole to match the emptiness in his heart. Deep, but never deep enough; shallow still, where the sun could still bring warmth and brilliance.

Of all the things he could not bear, the absence of light was the hardest to comprehend.

His hands shook as he took up the box, small and nondescript, all that was left of something never meant to last. Impermanent, his teachers would have said. It echoed in his mind, a remnant of the past. *Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter.* Reduced to a pile of nothingness, devoured by flame, captured in this small space. Only a box; there was nothing of consequence inside.

Still, he pressed it to his chest, touching it reverently. Remembering.

Perfect fit, in that place so close to the others he had called family. His mother, gone from the moment of his birth. His father, who never knew him. And now the last person he would bury, and the only one for whom he would grieve. He tucked the box neatly into its hiding place, shoving the dirt back into the nooks and crannies on every side, patting it gently into place, barely able to see.

In the distance, a nightbird cried for its mate, a lonely sound of longing. He turned his face toward the music of reunion, standing as the call was answered. They were lucky to find one another. So rare, that in all the galaxy, those two creatures should be drawn together.

He laid the robe carefully across the naked earth, where it would provide shelter and solace for what lay underneath, and tilted his face up to the night sky, welcoming its shadows. Too late for solace, too early for penance. Nothing to do but bide his time, and draw nearer the moment when regrets would be washed away in the cleansing fall of tears. Time stood still within his heart; the end of his struggle was not so far away.

The wind quieted; the trees were still against the sky. He stood, gazing at the starlit specks as they faded in the morning light, wondering how many would still be burning bright when he returned for the last time.

Even an eternity could be made finite when love stood waiting on the other side. It could be borne.

It would have to be.


	2. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon has a conversation with Yoda regarding the wisdom of training a Padawan who loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter of Foundations is an unconnected short early work from TPM fandom. I've posted them this way to avoid posting seven tiny stories separately. Written spring/summer of 1999; posted to AO3 in November 2015.

"Sense his feelings, you do." Yoda spoke with firm certainty. "Dangerous, this is." He looked up at Qui-Gon Jinn, who seemed to loom over the diminutive Jedi Master despite the fact he was kneeling on the brilliantly colored mosaic tile floor. "The boy is not ready. Be stronger, you must. Not so transparent." 

Qui-Gon did not even attempt to conceal his thoughts. Yoda's large blue eyes were like a drill boring straight into him, drilling down to his most private feelings. "Perhaps I am transparent to you, Master Yoda, but Obi-Wan has no idea I know." He paused, then added, "And he is no longer a boy, Master." 

Yoda's eyes narrowed in response to the defiance in Qui-Gon's tone, and he tapped his cane impatiently on the floor, a sure sign of his growing agitation. "Always so ready to disobey, Qui-Gon Jinn. Know the rules, you do. Choose another Padawan, you should. Why do you not do so? Jeopardize your future, you will." 

"I do what I must, Master." Waves of disapproval and skepticism from Yoda brought a half-smile to Qui-Gon's face. "Your ambitions are not mine." 

"A Jedi's place is where best he can serve. On the Council, you should be. Reckless, stubborn, foolish!" Yoda rattled off a list of Qui-Gon's faults with building vehemence. "Transferred these qualities to the boy, you have. Ruined his future, too." 

"No, Master Yoda, I have not." Qui-Gon stood suddenly, dignified but out of patience. "Obi-Wan follows his own path. It is one of his many strengths. I don't know what the future holds for him, but my immediate future will be as his Master, and if my decision keeps me from my own advancement, so be it." 

"Master, hmm?" Yoda questioned. "And nothing more?" 

Silence shimmered hotly in the circular room as the two Jedi stared at one another. 

Without another word, Qui-Gon bowed to Yoda, and left the room. Yoda exhaled a deep, resigned sigh, shaking his head in frustration. "You heard him," he said, apparently speaking to the open air. "Follow his heart, he will. Treacherous it will be for them both." 

Mace Windu emerged from the shadows where he had concealed himself before Yoda summoned Qui-Gon. So great was his control within the living Force that he could hide himself entirely, revealing no mental or physical evidence of his presence. "He's right," Windu told Yoda. "Kenobi has no idea Qui-Gon knows. Qui-Gon has been careful not to reveal his emotions. This isn't the first time such a thing has happened, you know." 

"No." Their eyes met. "Rules there are, to govern it. Expected it is, for a Padawan to desire his Master. Qui-Gon knows this." Yoda's words fell heavily, ringing of truth. "Mutual, it is." 

Windu nodded in agreement. "That's the reason he will not step back." 

"Dangerous," Yoda said again for emphasis, hoping all the while he would be proven wrong. Together, the Jedi Masters left the council chamber.

****************  
Qui-Gon pressed the control pad at the entrance to the quarters he shared with Obi-Wan and entered silently, hoping to avoid disturbing his Padawan. Obi Wan slept peacefully on his stomach in a disheveled heap, blankets wound around his legs and waist, bare limbs sticking out in different directions. He seemed younger in sleep, and breathtakingly handsome. His mind was at peace, his convoluted thoughts racing across a serene dream world, his breathing even and deep. One hand dangled over the floor just above his lightsaber, an accident of placement. 

Qui-Gon's gaze lingered on the younger man, raking the contours of his body. Instead of detached speculation, what arose in him was something darker, more disturbing. 

He had not expected to be taken to task over the strength of Obi-Wan's attachment to him. He'd known of it for quite some time, since Obi-Wan was still a young teenager. There had always been a connection between them, one so strong it had transcended even the lack of a Master/Padawan relationship in the very beginning. Qui-Gon had resisted taking Obi-Wan as his apprentice, amazed not just by the strength of Obi-Wan's devotion, but his own reciprocal feelings. 

It had been seven years since the hopeful, courageous boy had accepted Qui-Gon's offer to become his Padawan. In that time, the boy had become a man, determined, headstrong, skilled...not unlike Qui-Gon himself. Qui-Gon hesitantly admitted to himself that Obi-Wan did exhibit some of his more troublesome traits. Perhaps this explained Yoda's concern. 

And perhaps, it did not. 

As Qui-Gon undressed in the dim light, fabric rustling like the sound of leaves blowing together in the treetops, Obi-Wan stirred. Qui-Gon reached out with the Force and touched his student's mind, reassuring him. 

Recently, Qui-Gon had detected faint stirrings of a powerful longing in his student. Obi-Wan would avert his eyes at times, striving to conceal his mind from his Master's, but the palpable sense of wishful yearning communicated itself clearly. He overestimated his skill at camouflaging his needs. Under his Master's scrutiny, Obi-Wan would sometimes become like a sheet of thin glass, behind which gleamed fevered fantasies of his Master's body twined with his, of words which could be spoken aloud without fear of repercussion. 

Qui-Gon yanked a sleep tunic over his head and stopped for a moment, his mind racing. His reaction to those thoughts had been mild amusement, and he had easily diverted them without arousing Obi-Wan's suspicions. Try as he might to convince Yoda that his purpose for refusing to hand Obi-Wan over to another Master was selfless, Qui-Gon suddenly understood it was a deception - more of himself than anything else. His own sleep lately had been filled with renderings he could not ignore...Obi-Wan's mouth locked against his in possessive victory, tongues clashing in battle, hands roaming territory which had previously been the province of eyes alone... 

"Master?" A sleepy voice penetrated Qui-Gon's reverie. Startled, he turned to see Obi-Wan sitting up, wiping sleep from his eyes. "Is everything all right?" 

Qui-Gon was taken aback by the fact that Obi-Wan was awake...and he hoped his introspection had not somehow communicated itself to his student. Quickly, he went to the younger man, pulling down the screens of tranquillity and inner peace across his face and heart. "All is well, Padawan. Don't trouble yourself." 

Obi-Wan sensed something...and turned his face up toward his Master with an anxious expression. "Master...?" he pressed, uncertain. "I feel...something...I don't know..." 

"Back to sleep, young apprentice," Qui-Gon said briskly, manhandling his student back under the sheet so abruptly he had no time to protest. Qui-Gon's hand rested lightly on top of Obi-Wan's, the touch communicating comfort and serenity. Obi-Wan threw his other hand over his Master's and went immediately to sleep. 

For Qui-Gon, sleep was a long time coming, and was filled with unsettled, troubling dreams.


	3. I Heard You Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan grieves by Qui-Gon's pyre, and remembers a near-death experience of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter of Foundations is an unconnected short early work from TPM fandom. I've posted them this way to avoid posting seven tiny stories separately. Written spring/summer of 1999; posted to AO3 in November 2015.

When it came, it was like the strange drift of a twilight sleep. I had the sensation of floating above my body, but when I tried to move, I was locked inside, trapped. The blow was swift and sharp, cutting through muscle and sinew, tissue and bone, melting me into a helpless caricature of myself. 

I heard you calling my name, and the sound of your desperation made me anxious. I was lifted, folded against your chest. I strained to form words of reassurance, but it was as if a hand inside my throat choked off my power of speech, and I could not break through. My eyes were open, and I drank in the sight of your face, measuring the extent of my injuries against the look in your eyes. 

I knew then that I was dying, and you could not save me. 

Soft scratching against my forehead as my eyes closed... your beard grazed me as you cradled my head. Your voice broke when you said it again, and again - "Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan..." So much emotion. I hadn't realized, had never known, how much I meant to you. Your fear and anguish took on unique colors, like shifts in the indigo spectrum of a stormy sky, crystal specters behind closed eyelids. Gentle rain soothed my face, wetted my lips, and I tasted the salt of your tears. 

They say time is constant, that it cannot be altered or turned back. Suspended in the gray netherworld between the Force and my life, I counted the days we'd wasted, knowing they numbered in the thousands. What courage I possessed fled in the panic to recall every moment I'd spent in your presence, every gesture and nuance of your strength. I could not struggle, for my body would not obey. It was time to surrender to the inevitable. 

My head fell back against your chest. Cool air struck my bare skin as you ripped aside the fabric of my tunic, but there was no pain, and there should have been pain...but instead, only the thrill of your hands moving over my body, soothing, begging, healing. I savored your touch, for it gave me memory. The feel of your fingers renewed a fantasy long hidden, that one day you would touch me as a lover should. Too late, I thought...too late. 

Every individual nerve was sparking with energy; it shocked me, to feel the hold you still had on me. You held me tethered to you, whispering to me, speaking of love, weeping in anger. My heart beat, once, twice, trying to find a rhythm, seeking the pattern of life. I felt you channel the Force, felt it leashed at your command, marveled at the power you possessed. I knew in that moment all the secrets of your heart; it communicated with my soul, demanding that I listen. 

Your voice seemed a distant echo of what once was, a silver thread that shimmered in the light and faded as I turned. I felt bright, full, completed...but there was still an aching hole within me, and I hesitated. 

Torn between knowing the truth of the universe, and knowing the depth of your love, I was caught on the brink. Your lips brushed against my ear, and you pleaded with me to choose to live, to turn back. You raged at me for dying, for leaving you alone. Your mouth covered mine, and you rocked me in your arms, still crying my name. 

I heard you calling, standing between my death and the darkness beyond, and I chose to be yours. You rewarded me with a love beyond imagining, acceptance that transcended every barrier. 

The flames lick close, casting searing shadows against my face, as I remember. I call to you in grief as you once called to me. The fire leaps in response, eating the silence that follows. 

I mourn.


	4. Out Of My Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan drifts between the dual tortures of fantasy and reality on the worst night of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter of Foundations is an unconnected short early work from TPM fandom. I've posted them this way to avoid posting seven tiny stories separately. Written spring/summer of 1999; posted to AO3 in November 2015.

He lay with his arms outstretched in supplication, sprawled across the bed, unseeing, uncaring, only a shell of what he had been the night before. His eyes, their brilliant color dulled to an indistinct gray, were fixed on a point in the palace ceiling, a point he'd memorized, a point which no longer existed in his reality. Shifting shapes and shadows circled him, their presence changing nothing. He was immobile, listless, his body present but his mind elsewhere.

The faint smell of a dying blaze clung to his clothing, the scent lifting like ashes in the wind, twisting invisibly about the room before fading away. The sounds of the waterfall which cascaded beneath the foundations of the palace echoed about the cavernous room, muted by distance, unchanged by time. Bitter herbs lingered on his tongue, unnoticed, the residue of the ceremony he'd attended that evening. Underneath his outstretched hand, his Master's lightsaber, the weapon which had saved his life - one more reminder of a day which refused to end, a night that seemed eternal.

Anakin's demanding mind-touch pressed at the edges of his memories, denied entry. The boy felt the rebuff even at a distance, withdrawing without complaint. There was no room for anyone else tonight. Not now, not when it was so raw, so desperately painful. So much time they'd wasted, so many days which passed without something to mark them as important. He would have changed so much, if only he'd known.

He was without the strength even to throw his arm across his eyes, and the tears fell unguarded, flowing sideways down his cheeks, feathering across his ears onto the silken sheets below.

"Obi-Wan."

"Master?" He started upright on the bed, realizing suddenly that he'd been asleep. His hand flew to his mouth, where an impression lingered, an unaccountable warmth. His tongue darted out, seeking a particular taste, and his eyes widened as he found it. He sucked in his lower lip, ran a hand across the dried tracks of tears which crusted his face, wiping away all visible evidence of his grief.

In the dead of night, the room seemed to breathe with its own intensity. The silence was alive, tangible, filled with a presence which was as much a part of him as his own heart. Obi-Wan saw only darkness, but the borders of his consciousness reached out, accepting the light that was hidden just beyond.

He drew in his breath sharply, head snapping back, mouth growing slack as the familiar, wished-for closeness pawed its way through his mind, leaving behind glittering imprints of memory.

_Obi-Wan._

A sudden, unreasoning anger filled the young Jedi, fueled by sorrow, overpowering all other impulses.

_Master. You left me here alone to train this boy, I can't do this, I'm not fit to be a Jedi. I failed you, I cost you your life, I-_

Like the delicate caress of water on skin, his anxieties were soothed, his rage dissipating like the wisps of clouds in the skies over Coruscant. Images began flashing through his mind, so rapidly each was but a snapshot quickly pulled away. Killing the draigons with Qui-Gon at his side...facing Xanatos on Bandomeer...healing hands which passed over his skin and made him whole in every way...his Master holding him still as he made love to him with lips and tongue, with every part of his body...missions filled with knowing looks, laughter and subtle lessons taught with insistence...cries of passion and regret mingling over the remains of their life together...

"Stop!" Obi-Wan cried, curling onto his side, the torture of loss and mourning too much to be borne. He hugged himself fiercely, thinking that he would not survive this. Now that he was becoming delusional, imagining his Master to be with him, there was no doubt about the future that awaited him. He would not be able to keep his promise. Anakin would not be trained. The Council would sigh with relief at having Qui-Gon's pressure removed, and would shuffle the boy off to an education program which didn't suit his needs, and could never possibly answer his questions about the nature of his abilities.

Snatched away without warning...no future, no Master...he wasn't ready. He knew his own flaws. He couldn't possibly be to Anakin what Qui-Gon could have been, and there would be a price to pay for his ineptitude...

The memories crowded in on him, not accepting his rejection, surging through him like the swelling of a river after a hard rain. His tears felt hot, alien on his face, streaks of reminiscence driving toward an acceptance he would never allow. He gave himself up to them, the peace that accompanied surrender washing over him, cleansing him, giving him license to fall deeper into the wistful darkness which surrounded him.

_Obi-Wan._

This time the voice was less ghostlike, more substantial.

And not in his mind.

He listened, hushed and electric, the press of tranquility biting into his awareness. Hands pressed him back, large hands, hands which knew where to touch him, how to please him. The hands were within and without, a part of him, inseparable from his flesh. Teeth ravaged him, lips wandered him, a wild tongue prodded him, bringing him to a place he'd known before, a place where reason and insanity were one. He resisted the urge to scream as radiance permeated his body, magnified, drawn back inside and shoved out again, glorified by his arched back and aching want. He shouted Qui-Gon's name, angry, defiant, inconsolable, desolate.

_I am here, beloved Padawan. Always here._

"Master?" Groggy, Obi-Wan reached out with his mind and found...

Nothing.

He was alone in this world, and it was not real...none of it was real.

The bitterness of reality flung him back into his pain, out of the numb passivity he'd been inhabiting.

There would be no escape, then, no way to climb out of this trap he'd been snared in.

Obi-Wan sat up on the bed, wondering suddenly what kind of night Anakin had passed. It was his duty now, to be there for the boy. He felt a tugging at the corners of his sadness, knew it was the child he'd sworn allegiance to as his Master lay dying in his arms. He called the boy to him confidently as he pushed himself off the bed, feeling his Padawan braid brushing against his neck.

The soft hair woven through the long, velvety braid stroked across his neck like a caress. The calm which entered him then was surreal, more than his own, yet of his own summoning. He took hold of the braid, rubbing it between his fingers on this last morning he would ever wear it. Deeply certain, Obi-Wan smiled suddenly, understanding much, afraid no longer, obedient.

"Yes, Master."


	5. Deviations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan, as seen through Qui-Gon's eyes. Contains a very short scene with rough content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter of Foundations is an unconnected short early work from TPM fandom. I've posted them this way to avoid posting seven tiny stories separately. Written spring/summer of 1999; posted to AO3 in November 2015.

He leaps in the air, spinning like a dizzy butterfly, head over heels, learning to become the maestro of his own abilities. I can sense Obi-Wan's command of the Force, see the tiny beads of sweat which appear on his upper lip. If I close my eyes I can taste them, salty and forbidden against my tongue. This is a training ritual he's repeated so often I have dreamed of it, so familiar I could give these instructions in my sleep.

"Be one with the Force, Padawan," I call, knowing he heeds my words, embracing them, wrenching them into the world of concentration he inhabits at this moment. "Use it not as a weapon, but as a tool. Let it flow though you." His turns and spins become faster, his strikes more sure, and I am spellbound by his youthful power. The simple joy and athletic beauty of his actions spark proud desire in my heart.

I have been watching him execute these dangerous stunts for many years. Something drives him to test the limits of what is acceptable. Perhaps this is why he delights in flaunting his feelings for all to observe. When we became lovers, I knew this was to be expected. The sheer breathtaking honesty of our bond has put so much into perspective...

As he finishes the exercise and deactivates his lightsaber, he turns to face me. I meet his eyes steadily, well aware of what I will see there - his blue-green gaze, so much like light summer rain, pattering across my skin as he looks at me. Infinite eyes, which can be so deceptively bland, so innocently blank during delicate negotiations on far-away worlds, but which suddenly blaze with a deep cobalt fire in the heat of battle. Their depths contain so many secret wishes, such glittering promises. My apprentice is dark and deep and filled with lustful aching; I can sense his emotions as vividly as though we were one person.

His eyes are his most deadly weapon. I cannot withstand their assault.

"Well, Master?" Simple words, spoken with such assurance. He knows I am proud of his skill, yet he expects to be taken to task for his exuberance. His words emerge tinged with smug amusement. His voice is an instrument of his profession, used to manipulate or influence. Often, he uses those low tones to calm or distract an opponent, bending their will to his. I know what it is to have my pleasure directed by his words, to have my passion deepened by the suggestive sounds which rise from his throat, to hear my name spoken coarsely between gasps and cries, to hear the implosions of want in his shadowed tones as he comes with me, or for me.

"Less aggression, Padawan," I chide him. "You brandish the Force like a torch thrust out in front of you. Use it instead as a beacon. Let it guide you toward your goal."

"Yes, Master," he responds, a tiny grin curling the corners of his mouth in a seductive way that causes me to smile in return. His lips are often a particular focus of my attention. Soft and full, and easily teased into a mischievous smile or a wanton openness. That mouth has blazed searing trails across my skin, in all directions, heedless of my pleas to stop. His lips become a grim, tense line in battle or practice, as his jaw is set with determination; this is when he is most tenacious and not easily distracted.

Yet how simple a thing it is for him to distract my attention when his kisses fall feather-light across my face, his lips sensuously moving in one direction only...

"Begin again, and this time I want to see that you can execute the routine without your saber." I direct him to return to the exercise, sensing his willingness and eagerness to please. "Show me the technique of the open hand," I instruct, feeling a deep sense of peace flooding through my Padawan. He starts again at the beginning, moving with graceful speed through the various patterns he knows so well. The simple ones first, then the more difficult, always with a confidence born of repetition.

Obi-Wan obeys my subtle corrections immediately, his loyalty complete. He is fierce in his devotion, like a wild animal whose instincts drive him to protect the only home he knows. He tempers this fidelity with the cooling influence of submission, giving himself over to me in many things. He has surrendered to me completely, body and spirit, and I have made of him what my love dictated.

A sweep of his fingers to the right, an outstretched palm, and objects move through his ability to focus the Force. First a towel which sits abandoned beside the mats, then a small cup. Finally, with dizzying ability, my Padawan has picked up every object in the practice hall and suspended them in midair, hurling them about in dangerous, synchronous orbits, as he runs through the remaining steps of the exercise. I watch as he moves his fingers quickly, with definitive gestures, controlling every inanimate object in the room, his hands mere extensions of the Force.

I once pressed the palm of my hand to his, and marveled at how fragile his seemed in comparison. So small, barely half the size. The tips of his fingers curled under slightly when his skin contacted mine, and that tiny, gentle stroking made my heart ache. When first he touched me, wrapping his shaking fingers around the need which had grown to urgent proportions in me, I knew he was not fragile at all. His strength nearly broke me with its restrained tenderness.

Obi-Wan's movements slow, his drill coming to an end, and he vaults over the mats to the final stance of the exercise, measuring each breath. He walks toward me, hips swaying in the leashed swagger I've come to appreciate, a seductive, voracious gait. I have difficulty looking away as an image rises unbidden, of those hips thrusting hard against me, penetrating deeply, exposing me. 

He never breaks his stride, never wavers in his focus, directed toward me, eyes on my eyes. "Master," he says, acknowledging my role, compelling me toward obedience to the title. Then he is on me, practice tunic tossed aside, lips open and willing, hands delving into regions so thoroughly explored that they seem well-known and strange all at once. We fall to the ground, biting, clinging, pushing against familiarity. His hands glide over my shoulders, pulling down, as I roll into his touch, wanting it too much to speak. Reckless need comes over me, tinged with the brilliance of lust.

An urgent connection is formed, enraged and desperate in its fervor, as I throw him on his stomach, and he pushes up to meet me, growling like an untamed, wild thing. I rip aside the intrusive cloth which separates us and I am inside him, abandoning all gentleness, satisfying this primitive thing which is burning in me, filling him until I am become a part of him, undivided. My hunger ruptures the boundaries of what was known before, as blinding as a naked sun. I am lost inside him, feeling a burning build in me until I come apart, a thousand colored threads unraveling, the substance of my existence torn open. My arm is curled around his stomach, holding him in place; my teeth have fastened to his shoulder blade, his shuddering climax wracking us both. I lose all sense of myself when I hear his howl of fulfillment crackling through the silence of this sacred Jedi place.

We fall side by side to the floor, tremors coursing though us. He breathes my name, thinks it; the word becomes a caress as it slides from his tongue. I press my lips to his neck, to the bloodied teeth marks on his shoulder, disturbed by the base desire which overtook me. Reading me easily, my Padawan turns to me, face pressed close to mine.

"Take me again, Master," he whispers, that infernal grin lighting his face.

How easy it would be. And how dangerous.

Today is a day for danger.


	6. Blue Shadows, Broken Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon reflects on how his love for and trust in Obi-Wan was his salvation.

His skin is so pale, like a fine sheen of ice across a windowpane. Golden lashes, sprinkled with scarlet, flutter over the heavy darkness beneath his eyes. Each sigh against my skin is a priceless gift to me, a reminder of how he might be snatched away in the space of time between two breaths.

Fatigue finally overcame him an hour ago. He curled against me, limbs moving stiffly like hard sticks through tar, and fell asleep instantly. There's been much to tax his resilience these past few days.

I stripped him of his clothing, as I often did when he was a boy. I took exquisite care with him. For the first time, I felt a twinge of misgiving about setting him on another path, one which can include me only on the fringes. He still needs me, that much is certain, but my role in his life is yet to be determined. I gathered his body against mine, careful of the wound which has not yet healed, and the power of my own emotions ravaged my restraint. I am thankful he is not awake to see these tears, to understand the nature of my regret, to feel the relief which conquers reason when I look at him, to know my heart too well.

I acquired a kiss from those sleeping lips, savoring their taste, the salt of my own tears on my tongue as it brushed across his mouth. He slept on, comforted by the invisible presence of the living Force, wrapped about him like a silken cloak. I kissed those lashes where they lay on his cheeks, troubled by the exhaustion hidden beneath the closed eyelids. Much can be concealed within the shroud of slumber.

While I watched him, I wondered if he willed himself to dream. Visions of flight over the misty vistas of Endor, perhaps, or diving through the emerald seas of Misuro II. He spoke more than once of a dream of shadows, sapphire lights which danced over the crackling energy of my body, and of flames which carried me beyond his reach. He envisioned great darkness, a battle to the death, evil beyond compare. I dismissed his worries out of hand, not daring to believe he spoke of events which may actually come to pass. He is not gifted in the way of seeing the future. After all, dreams can confuse as well as illuminate. The nomadic imaginings of a youthful, active mind cannot influence the necessary actions of a Jedi Master.

Or so I allowed Obi-Wan to believe.

On every world we visited, I sought the seers, those with the talent to prognosticate, to anticipate the inevitable. With few exceptions, they handed me the prospect of my own death. It became a specter which dogged my movements, hovering just outside of practicality, waiting to be ruefully acknowledged. Vague details were the curse which accompanied knowledge, giving me every tool, then snatching them from me without preamble. I had cause to remember Master Yoda's instruction so many times - Always in motion, the future is. Even as I quelled Obi-Wan's fear of losing me to an as yet unseen enemy, I wondered what power I would have to change the unfolding of my own destiny.

Finally, I was forced to acknowledge my own lack of ability, and I visited Master Yoda on the eve of our departure for Naboo. He was quite surprised to see me, but he listened patiently, just as he did when I was his Padawan. I spoke, and he nodded sagely, blue eyes penetrating every excuse, demolishing every defense.

I was never able to hide from my Master. No other Jedi has ever had such total command of the Force, and I doubt any will again. I was very fortunate to have been chosen as his Padawan Learner. He selected me against the advice of most senior Council members, who saw me as wild, not possessing the necessary control to become a Jedi. He preferred to follow his own instincts in that regard. With a simple decision, he changed my future. I have often wished I could have sustained his faith in me.

Master Yoda helped me to understand that much would be determined by my belief in my Padawan's aptitude. If I pressed an attack, knowing I would need Obi-Wan's assistance, my pride would be my downfall. It was time for me to stop protecting Obi-Wan, and allow him to walk his own path. I was stubborn, as I have always been, focused on reality rather than causality, and Yoda rapped me with his walking stick several times before the point was driven home.

I must place as much trust in Obi-Wan as he had placed in me.

So the inescapable truth of the future collided with the present. I faced the Sith Lord, my strength nearly gone, my arms like leaden weights attached to my shoulders, burning and growing heavier with every strike of the two-sided saber. I saw Obi-Wan rushing toward me, stopped in his frantic pursuit by the laser walls, and I spared a moment to remind myself what was at stake. All the passion I'd denied myself, a love that could still be with this man who ached to fight at my side, awaited me on the other side of this struggle.

For only the second time in my life, I pulled away, conserving my strength, putting several paces between myself and my opponent.

I sensed my enemy's outrage that a Jedi would dare to disengage from a match entered into with such surety, but there was more to consider here. Obi-Wan...my decisions regarding his readiness for the trials took him by surprise, angered him, caused bitterness to swell within his heart. I absorbed it all, but was so set on a course of action with Anakin that I refused to deal with his feelings of betrayal. I should have understood what was at the root of it, but my mind was occupied elsewhere, my emotions swept up in irrelevancies.

I deflected, delayed, tried to stave off the worst of it, hoping my decision would bear up under the scrutiny it was sure to be given at some point in the future, no matter the outcome. He beat at me, clubbing at my defenses without finesse, knocking me half senseless before I could respond...

And then Obi-Wan was there, in front of me, taking the deadly blow meant for me, the red glow of the Sith's saber protruding from his shoulder blade, very near his heart. My Padawan fell to the ground as I shouted with rage, striking true, cutting the malevolent tattooed head from the body swathed in black, bearing down on the satisfaction which filled me as he collapsed lifeless to the floor.

My price to pay, not Obi-Wan's. Never his. It was not meant to be.

I pulled Obi-Wan into my arms, gasping for breath, knowing he would live but still afraid, of losing him, of the anger which motivated my every move when the enemy was pursuing me. His eyes fastened to mine, all the colors of the twilight spectrum, clouded with pain and tears, as he tried to speak of his unwavering love for me. I hushed him with a soft kiss, calming what churned within him, telling him explicitly how I knew we would never again be apart. I was immersed in sensation with his body close to mine, alive and well; his love flooding my soul, his concern for my welfare, his apologies for not incapacitating the Sith before he was injured.

I carried him from that place, unwilling to surrender him to the hands of others; saw to it his wound was dressed, healed as much as possible, although he would let no one touch him but me. I scooped him up and carried him once again, his arms around my neck, until we reached these quarters so generously allowed us by the Queen.

We talked while I applied all the strength I still possessed to healing him. Quiet conversation, punctuated by grimaces and wan smiles, and always the touch of my hand to his body, and his mind to mine. It seemed effortless, and it was. We were together, no longer capable of separating our will or desire. It was as Yoda had said it would be. I simply lacked the awareness which would have brought it about long before.

When he wakes, there will be explorations, and explanations, and many demands which cannot be easily accommodated. I will find a way to remain a part of his daily life, even if it means I must forsake all I have believed. Anakin is safe among brethren who will guide him now.

There will be a tomorrow for us all, filled with decisions which will shape a universe. All I can see now is the mirror of this moment, those eyes which see in mine a reflection of a love which cannot be measured, a destiny which was anticipated and brought about with care, a future which is more important than any alternative.

He is my life. There is nothing else...only Obi-Wan. Consequences be damned.


	7. Crimson Mists, Darkest Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A companion piece to Blue Shadows, Broken Mirror from Obi-Wan's point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter of Foundations is an unconnected short early work from TPM fandom. I've posted them this way to avoid posting seven tiny stories separately. Written spring/summer of 1999; posted to AO3 in November 2015.

Where the first dream ended and reality began, I could not say. The images twisted inside me like animals gone wild, gnawing their way out until I was forced to allow them their freedom. I saw the end of my world. Nothing could reassure me it would not come to pass.

The dream left indelible imprints on my mind like smudges of smoke from a hot fire. I saw him there in darkness, a hollow silhouette illuminated by a storm of blue lightning, until flickering flames obscured him from view. And then I woke, screaming in the momentary absence of his touch, understanding what it would be like to live a waking death. I was oblivious to his gentle hands on my face, soothing me, and his soft words of comfort. It was not enough to quiet me. I knew he was going to die.

To live with the knowledge of impending sorrow is to be handed an opportunity, a chance to change what is to be. It is what the Jedi believe, and I sought guidance and consolation in the truth of familiar teachings. I considered the consequences of saying nothing, of bearing the weight of such possibilities alone. Often, looked at me and knew there were words shouting through my mind, warnings gaining urgency, dread and fear pooling in the delicate abyss of insight. Questions formed in his mind and were asked in his eyes, but he said nothing, out of deference to my obvious silence. 

I puzzled it through, deciding finally to share my fears. I told him underneath the cover of the lengthening shadows of night on a distant world, where the stillness of the evening would lend weight to my hesitating words. The absence of light in our quarters made it easier to speak. He rose from his bed quickly, turning on a small lantern. For a moment he seemed far away, focused on the future, but his startled posture relaxed quickly into perfect calm. One corner of his mouth turned upward into a small smile, an affirmation that these were groundless worries, meant to be consigned to the world of dreams where they originated. He said as much, reminding me that I had never possessed the gift of knowing the future as some of my classmates had. I longed to believe him, to take solace from the wisdom of my Master, who had always been correct about so many things.

It would have been much simpler to release my fears if the dream had not recurred that very night, and with a vengeance that would escalate over the years between that night, and this.

My cries of terror woke him on those dreadful, infrequent occasions, as I came shuddering to my senses with his arms around me, his expression of helpless worry breaking my heart. He tried to reason the dreams away, tried to be rational, even stern, dismissing my fear of losing him, reminding me that there was always danger in the life of a Jedi. I stopped speaking of it at last, which seemed to ease his mind. 

But I did not stop dreaming.

A year passed, and I knew that time was closing its grasp on my Master. We worked, we trained, we neared the common goal of my Knighthood. We accepted the assignments we were given, and our duty took us to a world with two suns, where we found ourselves separated out of necessity. I slept inside a silver star descended down onto arid sand, and tumbled out of my dreams with a shout, feeling the nearness of the moment which would change everything. I sat silently amidst rumpled bedclothes, feeling the ache of love for my Master growing from a lighted spark to a burning core within me, already mourning the future which would be snatched away. I hated myself for honoring the traditions which stopped me from revealing my heart. I wondered if I had any power to affect the direction of destiny.

Beyond those few hours, there was no time to reflect, for we were quickly plunged into battles small and large. I found words only to question my Master's decisions, and to apologize for overstepping my place. No further conversation passed between us; there was nothing more to be said, or at least nothing more which would be heard. He was determined to set me on a path which would not include him, not that it mattered. I could not share him with the boy. And perhaps that pain would fade, as well, in time.

So it was that we faced the Sith Lord, and I stood restrained behind a crimson veil, my eyes riveted to Qui-Gon's graceful form, watching the strength bleed from him with every strike of the enemy's saber. Fury and desperation rattled down inside me. For the first time, my Master was losing a fight, and I saw him pull back many times, saving his strength in a patient and careful manner. It was unlike him, such restraint in combat, such conservative defense.

And suddenly, for the first time, I realized my Master was relying on me, to step in when the opportunity was presented, to enter the conflict as an equal, to be the other half of the whole. Even as I understood, I felt the joy within me tempered down by foreboding, and knew that the laser walls might drop too late. There was only one thing to do, one thing which would give him the advantage, the precious seconds of distraction, the focus which would restore his energy. I hung my lightsaber back at my belt and readied myself. 

The red mist before my eyes disappeared, and I became a blur of motion as I jolted forward and lifted myself in the air, somersaulting across the melting pit, setting myself between my Master and my dream, and felt the beautiful pain of victory as I took the blow which would have killed Qui-Gon. I fell, immobile, damaged. I heard my Master roar with anger, a sound I'd never believed possible, and knew by the ripples of the Force which flowed over me that the Sith Lord was dead.

He gathered me in his arms like a child, yet not as a child, but as a man -- one who had words to speak which might be wanted, at long last. My tears betrayed me, as I disregarded pain and tried to say it all in one breath. His lips covered mine, hushing me, showing me, persuading me to be silent for a moment and accept his love in return. He whispered softly next to my ear, speaking only for me, telling me we would not be apart again, that no longer would he ignore the demands of his own heart, or mine. That he had been a fool. The agony of my wound was too brilliant and deep, and I should not have remembered what he said; yet, his words are etched like crystal in my mind. 

Qui-Gon carried me through the palace, past the Queen and her remaining troops, past the boy who once held exaggerated importance in my thoughts. There was a brief moment of panic when he laid me down, and I found myself resisting the touch of anyone but my Master. No matter. He helped them dress my wound, his hands briefly resting on my body, filling me with the sensation of utter peace. I was too weak to walk any great distance, and he carried me once again, bearing me easily, walking with great, powerful strides, until he reached our quarters. Once there, he healed me, giving with the last of his capacity so that I might be well. I marveled at how quickly it had come about, this unity, this effortless joining of hearts. 

And I fell asleep in his arms, content.

Now I look at my Master's face with a hunger I need no longer conceal. He sleeps next to me, drawn and exhausted. I wonder at the toll this has taken. So much discovered in a day; so much nearly lost, and so much found. I will not go into an uncertain future without him. There has been too much avoidance, too little revelation. My heart is open to his, and I will not settle for any less than what he promised as he kissed away my pain. There is a way for us to remain together; there must be, and I will find it. I will persuade him again, as I have before.

And I will once again step between my Master and a destiny I cannot accept.


End file.
